


to pass for a lady,—only think what fun!

by etben



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Crossdressing, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in women's clothes, on purpose to pass for a lady,—only think what fun!"</p><p>OR: Pride and Prejudice and cross-dressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to pass for a lady,—only think what fun!

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to J, who, as ever, is entirely to blame.

Georgiana had been crying in the music room.

"—and I know I shouldn't, because she's my aunt, but she's just _terrible_ , and she asks all these questions and I don't _know_ , and Anne just sits there and smirks and is absolutely no help at all and—" she sucked in a shuddery breath. "—and I don't _know_ how to wear a shawl properly, _or_ stays, and I don't _care_ , and they can't make me." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared out at her brother from under the pianoforte. "So there."

"I understand, Georgiana, but—"

"No you don't!" She glared again, this time with more than a hint of a quiver to her lip. "You get to wear _trousers_ and go riding and fishing and, and _running_ ," she accused. "You never have to embroider or practice the pianoforte or," she kicked her feet sulkily, "wear stupid stays".

"...but you _like_ the pianoforte," Fitzwilliam replied, for want of a better answer, and then, before she could start again, "and you needn't embroider if you don't wish to—reading is, I'm sure, just as beneficial to the mind. More, really." He smiled at her tentatively. "Will that help, dearest?"

She nodded. "But I still don't know how to make the shawl hang straight, and Mariah only laughs when I ask her, and Aunt Catherine just shakes her head, and—" tears began to well up in her eyes, and it was that, more than anything, that led Fitzwilliam Darcy to make possibly the rashest promise of his life:

"We'll try it together, then."

*

"—and of course he didn't know how any of it worked, either," Georgiana finished, "but he was such a sport about it, and so good-natured, that it quite took away all of my apprehension about the matter." She laughed, delicate and easy. "It seems so silly, now, but I really was quite frightened at the time."

"I can well believe it," Elizabeth said, shaking her head with laughter. "You poor thing—eleven years old, and with no-one more sympathetic than Lady Catherine to help you!" She looked at her husband and raised an eyebrow. "Although I am rather surprised that you went through with it, Mr. Darcy."

He shrugged, glancing away. "It seemed the easiest way." Easier, by far, than getting Georgiana to try things on her own, in front of him or not; certainly easier than figuring out how, exactly, one went about hiring a ladies' maid for a young lady who was terrified of most of the trappings of her estate.

"Indeed, and it worked splendidly, and you see!" Georgiana twirled a finger, leaning back into her chair with a smile. "I am quite brave enough to put on my own gowns, these days."

"How fortunate you were, to have such a willing example," Elizabeth said, laughing, but she took her husband's hand and held it, and it was clear that she meant every word.

*

Which could have been— _should_ have been—the end of it: an embarrassing display of devotion from a teenaged landholder towards his shy younger sister. Indeed, Fitzwilliam Darcy had quite forgotten the conversation, some months later, until—

"—to be quite fair, my love," his wife said, "you told me you did not care one whit for the choice of costumes, and that I should sort everything out to my own satisfaction, because you would be tolerably happy no matter my decision." Which indeed he had said, and probably, knowing his wife, in those exact terms. Elizabeth smiled at him, then crossed the room to slide her arms around him. "If it truly distresses you, Mr. Darcy, then by all means we shall find some alternative—perhaps a Roman Senator—"

"No, my love," he said. "No, you are entirely right—and let this be a lesson to me, hm? Not to leave you too often to your own devices." He smiled as he spoke, though, and she smiled back, delighted. "I suppose, then, that I ought to try it on?" She opened her mouth; intending, no doubt, to offer him another means of escape, but he shook his head ruefully. "No, indeed, it is no less than I deserve." He scooped up the bundle of cloth in his hands and glanced about the room.

"Behind the screen, perhaps?" She herself used it but rarely—as marriages went, they were uncommonly fond of one another—but it remained in the room, primarily as a concession to the sentiments and sensibilities of her girl, Lucia.

"Indeed." He turned to her, bowed briefly—the chemise flipping daintily over his arm as he did so—and then went behind the screen to make his preparations.

It was less difficult than he would have anticipated: memory was a powerful aid, supplemented by four comfortable years of watching—and occasionally helping—his beloved bride with her _toilette_. Still, the entire experience served to confirm the evaluation he had made ten years previous: that women's clothing was dashed complicated. He voiced this opinion to Elizabeth, wrestling with his garters, and she laughed.

"You will find no argument from this quarter, my darling," she replied. "Some of the newer fashions are quite beyond my understanding." Cloth rustled, as though perhaps she were preparing her own costume; he smiled in anticipation.

"Which is indeed a strong charge," he said, patting the last pieces of his _ensemble_ into place, "since you are quite the most ridiculous—oh."

"My sisters and I," she said, smiling, "had no brothers to emulate—but that, I fancy, did not stop us long."

"Indeed," he replied, almost wholly unaware of his words, so fascinated he was by her garb. Her hair was tied back neatly, and her boots—Georgiana's, he thought, from an older style—gleamed with polish. Shirt, waistcoat, and jacket all fit perfectly; she had done _something_ to her torso to make them lie just so. Her cravat was tied credibly, but only just, and there was some measure of relief to be had from the fact that in this, at least, she was not entirely at her ease. The breeches—

"—are yours, yes," she said, finishing his sentence. "I took them in—really, Fitzwilliam, you cannot imagine that I spent so much time at my sewing this week because I _enjoy_ it; you know me far to well for that." She smiled at him, and something about her posture, the angle of her head, of her hand at her waist— "Good afternoon, Mrs Darcy," she said, stepping forward to bow over his hand. Before he had thought of it, he found himself sinking into a curtsy, shaky from lack of practice but not (he congratulated himself, somewhat bewildered) entirely unacceptable.

Some strange alchemy produced by the sight of his wife in breeches had taken his own costume from farce to a true disguise; he felt his posture change, his hands fluttering together; and his voice, when he spoke, was unaccountably soft and gentle.

"Mr Darcy," he replied, glancing up at her from under his eyelashes.

She stepped closer, and then closer, and then—

*

"Perhaps the senator would be a better choice, after all," Elizabeth said afterwards. "We shouldn't like to make a scandal so early in the summer."

"Quite right, my dear," he said—

—but the dress, he thought, they might keep.


End file.
